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Jameson was sitting in his car, trying not to be wound up by the queue of traffic that he had unwittingly become part of. Looking in his rear view mirror he could see car after car impatiently grinding to a halt behind him. They look like ferocious dogs on a leash, waiting to be let go, he thought. The revving of the car immediately behind him confirmed this suspicion.
"Bugger off!" he thought to himself. He had both windows open, because of the sweltering heat, which hardly made a difference. There was no breeze to cool him down. He wound both windows up to cut out the noise of the engines behind him. That just made him feel more claustrophobic than he was already feeling. He wound his own window down again.
Something was happening ahead of him. It appeared the traffic was beginning to move forward. He was hopeful. After five metres it came to a halt again.
"Bugger!" he thought . Then the windscreen cleaners appeared several cars in front of him. He hoped the traffic would start moving again before they got to him. It didn't.
"I don't want my windows cleaned." He began adamantly. The short wearing, topless, muscle bound young man in front of him, gave him a blank stare, then threw a bucket of dirty water over his windscreen.
"What about now?" He innocently asked.
"Bugger!" thought Jameson.
Almost as soon as he got into the office McGleish came in to ask him were he had been. "It's not good enough." He said. "You can't just disappear when you feel like it, or turn up two hours late. It gone quarter past ten."
"I went to see a client." Jameson defended himself. "Then there was the traffic." He added.
"Which client?" Badgered McGleish.
"Salisbury. "
"You mean Thruxton's Gardens?"
"That's it." Jameson smiled in his most pleasant manner.
"Thruxton's Taunton, not Salisbury."
"Ah." Jameson's smile crumbled. He was not good at the lying game. He was no good at any of the games people wanted to play. He never wanted to play any games, except perhaps the love game. No, the sex game he corrected himself.
"Once more Jameson, then you"re out. Out on your ear. I don't make idle threats. Believe me."
"Ah." Said Jameson.
McGleish looked even more like a walrus than he normally looked. He scowled at Jameson, once more, as if to put extra emphasis on his threat. Then he swung on his heels and walked away.
Jameson didn't have his own office. He was on a floor, with three other copy writers and their shared secretary, Penny. There space was split by wavering partitions, that didn't supply the privacy they were supposed too.
Bob came over. "I heard that." He said. As he got no reply he added, "It sounded quite serious."
"Mmm." Murmured Jameson, ruffling some papers that were piled on his desk. "What are these?" He asked absentmindly.
"You"d better ask Penny." Said Bob, who then sloped off to his desk.
"Someone call." Penny was wearing a light looking, flowery summer's dress. She smiled at Jameson. Penny was often in Jameson's thoughts, usually as an object of lust, but on occasion as his perfect partner, who would be a mother to his children. They lived on a desert island. in bliss, with the palm trees and parrots. Jameson built huts and wrote poems. He wasn't sure what Penny did, except shower naked underneath the waterfall a lot. He thought of the waterfall every time he looked at Penny. He had never asked her out in case she said no, and shattered his illusions.
"Someone call." she said again. Jameson was looking distracted. This time he seemed to wake up.
"I just wondered what these papers were." He said.
"Those are new clients." Answered Penny. "McGleish wanted you to have them. He was quite firm."
"That would make sense." Then he changed direction completely, "Why do you work here Penny, it's not the most fulfilling of lives, is it?"
Penny just smiled at him, a glorious smile. "Why do you?" She asked, then swirled away and walked off with her waterfall.
"Why indeed", muttered Jameson.
It was half past four when he thought of leaving work. He had been trying to write some copy for a new brand of cereal. The company wanted something distinctive that would go with their advertising slogan, "Wake up to Carpals, wake up to bliss." He had been having trouble with it all day. He needed to emphasise the nutritional value of Carpals cereal, while stressing the fun of the product. He couldn't do it. Carpal's is crap, he wrote. Then he began putting his things away. He left half an hour early. He wasn't scared of McGleish. If he was sacked then a discussion would have been made for him. He could deal with that.
There was heavy traffic on the way home. Cyndi Lauper sang from his car stereo. "Girls just want to have fun." She shrilled.
"No they don't!" thought Jameson. When the windscreen cleaner came to get him Jameson just glared. "Alright mate," the man said, "I won't bother you."
Jameson lived alone. That was not strictly true. He was honoured to share his house with George, a large, well fed black cat, who had just appeared and had come to live with him. It was an easy relationship. George stole half of his dinner. Jameson let him steal it. One of Jamesons hobbies, as well as fantasising about incredible things, was writing poems.
He didn't think of himself as a poet, he had never had anything published, but he took great pleasure from this hobby. Sometimes the poems were angst ridden and a bit depressing. But on a few occasions they weren't so personal and were quite good. Jameson had a old typewriter which he used. He sat down to it, stared at it for a few minutes then got up. He went over to the only comfortable looking chair in the room and collapsed down. He picked up the local freebie newspaper from the floor, and had a look at what was on the box.
There was a re-run of "When the boat comes in." at eight o'clock. On the other side was a documentary about Mark Thatcher. Neither of these appealed to him. As he was folding the paper up, in preparation to stuff it under the chair, an advert caught his glance. It was simple text: Writers Circle, 7.30 pm, 23rd July, followed by an address. It's got to be better than Mark Thatcher, thought Jameson. There was no phone number. He went to get his A-Z to see if he could find the address.
He had a pork pie and a salad for his tea. Rather he had half a pork pie and half a salad. George came to settle down on his lap, after eating his fill. Jameson stood up though. "I'm sorry George. I'm off out." George, who sat on Jameson's lap every night, for at least an hour, was a bit surprised and a bit ruffled at being shaken from his place of rest. When Jameson let him out he strolled off with his tale high in the air, as if to say I wanted to go out anyway.
Jameson had a quick shower, put some casual trousers on and a trendy pyjama looking shirt he had bought in a sale at Burton's the week before, and brushed his teeth. He then spent ten minutes trying to sponge some toothpaste out of his trousers. When he was done he looked in the mirror. Jameson was thirty two years old and felt like he was quickly getting nowhere. No love, no wife, no child, no son. All he had was the house he had inherited from an aunt he didn't like and dreams about Penny. He had written a poem the night before. It was called "Heatwave." It had ended with the line, And the green has left the grass. He felt like the green had left him too.
On his way to Burgess Road he only got lost once or twice and he arrived there at about a quarter past seven. It was a big house, with a large gravel drive. There were several cars parked in the drive; an old, battered Mercedes, an Escort and a VW Polo. He sat outside, wondering whether he was going to go in. I might as well, he concluded. He grabbed his pile of poems from the back seat, locked his car and walked up to the house.
When he knocked on the door it seemed a long time before someone came to answer it. It was a teenage boy. "Yeah?" he said to Jameson questioningly, "The ad, in the paper. The circle."
The boy looked blank for a moment, then yelled behind his shoulder, "It's another one of your nutters, mum." Then he raced past Jameson and out of the front door.
Jameson peered cautiously into the house. When no-one else came to greet him he made his way in the direction the boy had shouted. Past the stairway and on the right a door was partially open. There were sounds of voices coming from the room, as well as some garbled music. Jameson knocked on the door and went in.
There were five people in the room, three women and two men. One of the women was dressed in flowing garments that reminded Jameson of a gypsy he had once seen at a fair. The other two women were dressed normally, in jeans and tops.
The two men, both young, looked up at him pleasantly.
"The boy said I could come in." He murmured.
The men just grinned at him.
"I"ve come for the writer's circle. Look I"ve brought my poems." He said and thrust out a tattered pile of A4 paper.
"Lets hear one." Said one of the young men.
"What now?" Said Jameson.
"Why not!"
"Er...OK.
"The Researchers, that's what it's called. The researchers worked hard. And one day found that much like chicken pox and measles that love was a disease. So they sought to eradicate it, with a vaccine. Which they injected into the air. And with the eradication of love half the problems of the world disappeared... but the daisies refused to grow.
"Er...That's it." Said an embarrassed Jameson.
"That's not bad." Said the young man. "You ought to go somewhere with that, get it published."
"Er... Yes... That's why I"ve come here."
"Really." Said the young man. "I suppose that might work." He offered out his hand. "My name's Steve by the way."
He shook hands. "Jameson." He said.
The others in the group introduced themselves. There was Darren, Elaine, Mary-Anne and finally Mrs. Jackson, the gypsy, an older lady, whom Jameson took to be the mother of the teenager he had seen earlier.
"I saw your advert in the Advertiser." Said Jameson. "I hope you don't mind that I came. I would have phoned first but there was no phone number." He shrugged his shoulders. "Are you a local group?"
"I don't have a phone." Said Mrs. Jackson. "Are you interested in the cards?"
Jameson, a little confused, said "I don't gamble, I loose too much."
"Ah, humour." Said Mrs. Jackson dryly.
As if acting on some silent request Elaine manoeuvred five chairs into a circle. Jameson didn't offer to help but stood admiring her breasts. She was obviously wearing no bra. Elaine caught his eye. "A seat?" she asked.
Jameson took a chair and the others followed suit. Mary-Anne sat down next to him. "Why do you introduce yourself as Jameson? It makes you sound like someone of the telly. My name's Bond.... Rockford, Jim Rockford...McGyver." She did these names with a variety of impressions that made Jameson smile.
"It's just what every one calls me." He said.
"What's your first name?" Mary-Anne asked.
"I"d rather not say." Said Jameson.
"O.K."
Once everyone had settled down Mrs.Jackson spoke up. "Welcome to the fourteenth meeting of the Winter's Circle." she said.
"Excuse me." Said Jameson.
"Pardon." Said Mrs.Jackson.
"Er... Writer's circle. Welcome to the fourteenth meeting of the Writer's Circle?"
The question mark at the end of this sentence waited for an answer. It was a few moments before he got one. In the meantime everyone was looking at him strangely.
"Winter's Circle." Said Mary-Anne finally. "We are the Winter's Circle."
"Ah," said Jameson, "and what do you do exactly."
"All sorts." Came Elaine's pleasant reply, "but mainly we look."
"Look?"
"Yes, look at ourselves. Inside. And sometimes at other's insides."
"You don't write?"
"Write what?"
"Stories and poems and things."
"I see." Interjected Steve.
"You see what?" Asked Darren.
"Why he bought his poem."
"Oh." Said Darren. Then added, "Why did he bring his poem?"
"He thinks we"re a writer's circle"
"What's that?" Said Mrs.Jackson.
"In the paper," Said Jameson, "it said you were a writers circle. I write." He added feebly.
"What paper?"
"The Advertiser."
After a few minutes of searching and rustling Steve produced a copy of The Advertiser. "I knew I had seen a copy around here somewhere." He said and smiled triumphantly.
He turned to the advert. "He's right you know. It says Writer's circle in here. I wonder if anyone else will come?"
"I think I better go if you"re not a writer's circle." Said Jameson.
"Nonsense." Said Mrs.Jackson. "Everything happens for a reason. You"re obviously here for a reason."
"But I don't want to look at my insides, or anyone else's!"
"It"ll be fun." Said Mary-Anne. "We don't really look at people's insides. We look at ourselves. And we use the cards and things to do it."
"The cards?"
"Yes."
Jameson looked around him in a panic. He recalled the words from the boy at the door, "It's another one of your nutters." He wanted to leave. He was just devising a parting excuse in his head when Steve spoke up.
"Look," he said, "let me explain. You obviously thought we were a writers circle. Fair enough. Easy mistake. We"re actually called the Winter's circle. That's because when we formed this club it was on the winter solstice a few years ago. Mrs.Jackson leads it, the rest of us are just learning. We learn the tarot, palm reading, the runes and tea leaves."
"Not anymore." Said Mrs.Jackson. "Tea leaves are out. No-one uses them anymore. It's all bags and granules these days. They don't leave a residue."
"Ah." Said Jameson.
"Hang around." Said Steve. "We"re reading the cards tonight. Nothing heavy."
So he stayed. It had to be an improvement on Mark Thatcher.
They began as if he wasn't there, or as if had always been there. No-one slowed down for him because he was new. At the same time they made him feel comfortable. Everyone apart from himself had a packet of Tarot Cards. He shared with Mary-Anne. Mrs.Jackson was looking at characters from something called the Major Arcana. She was explaining their possible meaning if they arose in a reading. He soon lost attention and his mind wandered. To islands and work and Penny.
"Mr.Jameson." The voice interrupted him. "Do you mind if I do a practice reading on you? It won't take long."
"Er... OK." he said.
Steve got up and came back with an old collapsible card table. Mrs.Jackson and Jameson then arranged their chairs so they were facing each other over the table.
"Right." Said Mrs.Jackson. "We"ll start of with a simple reading. It's called the... now let me see, it's called the..." She paused for a moment as if trying to recall what it was called. "It's called the six card choose it yourself spread." She announced grandly.
"Ah!" Said Jameson.
"Now, you ask the client... Is it client these days? I always used to use punter or questioner. Now it's client or customer. I think we"ll stick with client. You ask the client to choose six areas in his life that he wants to know about." Then she looked at Jameson.
"I don't really know." he said.
"What about loved ones?" Suggested Steve.
"I don't have any loved ones. Well, there's George I suppose."
"There you go." Said Steve. "So loved ones it is."
"What else?" Asked Mrs.Jackson.
"There's myself." He suggested .
"Four to go."
"My job."
A pause.
"Money."
A longer pause.
"My future and my luck." He said. "I suppose you can have those as categories?" He asked.
"Anything you like." Said Mrs.Jackson. "That's it then.
"Next you ask the client to choose six cards, one for each category. Later on, if you want to concentrate on a particular area you can ask him to choose more."
So Jameson chose six cards. By now he was a bit more interested. In fact it was quite fun. He didn't recognise any of the cards he had chosen, except the death card. Which quite worried him. Especially as it related to himself. He involuntarily gulped.
"This is an interesting card." Said Mrs.Jackson, picking up the death card. "It has a particularly beautiful design." It didn't look particularly beautiful to Jameson. It looked like a skeleton with a scythe.
"Don't look worried." She said dramatically. "Nobody's going to die. This card is misinterpreted quite commonly. It doesn't mean death, though on occasion it can involve death. It means a great change is going to take place. In this case a great change in Mr.Jameson's life. And not necessarily a gloomy change.
"Now to the second category, money." She picked up the card he had chosen. "Oh dear." She said. "This card is called the five of coins." It was a simple card, depicting five coins in the pattern of the five of diamonds in a packet of playing cards. "It means a sense of loss or loneliness. Does that mean anything to you?" She asked.
"I'm always lonely." Said Jameson. Then he thought, "Bugger, why did I say that?"
"It doesn't just apply to people although it can, it usually means there is to be a large financial loss.
"So don't bet on the horses." She added.
Jameson looked indignant. "I don't!" He said.
"Now, what's next. Your job. Let's see." This time the card was The Fool. Jameson felt like a fool when he saw it.
"Another card that shouldn't be taken literally." Mrs.Jackson said. "This means there is a new future for you, a change of direction. It also means there might be a period of fun too look forward too. Even though it's laid in a positive position there is also a slight warning not to make rash, chancy decisions." Mrs.Jackson suddenly delved into the curtain like dress she was wearing and pulled out a pocket watch. "Look, it's time to finish." She said and began gathering the cards.
"Er, can we finish this reading?" Asked Jameson.
"Are you sure?" Replied Mrs.Jackson.
"Yes."
So they continued.
It was the Loved Ones section. Jameson had chosen the Queen of Cups as his card. He hadn't looked at the card closely, and as he did so now he began to feel a little light headed. The card depicted a queen like figure, sitting on a throne, with a large silver wine goblet in one hand. There was nothing unusual about that. Only he recognised the queen. It was Penny.
"This suit is interesting." Said Mrs.Jameson. "The cups usually refer to love, marriage or possessions. Now the queen of cups will bring love and comfort to the client. She will be a faithful and trusting companion. Unfortunately she might be a little selfish at times. Incidentally she also likes animals. Are you all right Mr.Jameson?"
Jameson was rubbing his eyes. The card had reverted to normal. It didn't look like Penny and probably never had. It was his imagination. He was tired.
"Does George look like that?" said Steve with a smile.
"No." Said Jameson. "He's black."
"Oh." Said Steve.
The next card was The Hierophant and applied to his future. "It's negative," said Mrs.Jackson, "upside down." The card depicted an old, bearded wise looking man, kind of like a bishop with a hat and a staff. "This card doesn't usually apply to a person in the clients life but more generally a feeling of spiritual guidance. In this case it means that Mr.Jameson shouldn't be timid in whatever decision he's about to take. I'm afraid it's really getting quite late. We must pack up, you don't mind do you Mr.Jameson."
"Can you quickly tell me about the last card. The one about my luck.?"
"It's the Six of Staves."
"What does that mean?"
"Well briefly it means travel. Perhaps you are going somewhere."
Jameson didn't sleep too well that night. He had dreams about the tarot cards. The characters he had seen on the cards became people and talked to him about all sorts of things, none of which he could remember. When he came down for his breakfast George was not to be seen. Jameson went to freshen up his litter tray. He picked up some newspaper to use. It was the Advertiser. Instead of the advert for the Writer's circle there was an advert for a butcher's shop. He checked the date - 23rd July. He found his A-Z and looked up Burgess Road. There was no Burgess Road. He sat down and began thinking.
Penny was making Mr.McGleish a cup of coffee. It was half past eleven and he always had a cup of coffee then. Though why she should have to make she couldn't quite make out in this age of enlightment and equality. McGleish was in a foul temper. For the second day in a row Jameson hadn't come in on time. Just as she was pouring the coffee the glass, office doors swung open and Jameson came in.
"Why are you wearing shorts?" Asked Bob.
Before Jameson could answer McGleish thundered from his office.
"Jameson!" He shouted. "You"re fired!!!"
"Ah." Said Jameson.
"Haven't you got anything to say?"
"Not much."
"And why the hell have you got a cat in your arms?"
Jameson ignored him and walked over to Penny. "Look," he said, "I"ve been thinking. I'm leaving here and I'm going overseas. I'm taking George with me." He indicated to the ball of fur under his arm.
"Won't he be in quarantine a long time?" Asked Penny.
"Well, I'm planning to go for a while. An island, in the Indian ocean." He said answering her inquisitive glance.
"Do you want to go with me?" He suddenly asked.
Surprised she asked him, "What made you think that?"
"Just a feeling." Said Jameson. He turned to leave. "I'm going now." He said. "Oh... here you go." He handed her an envelope. Then he walked off. Just as he passed the doors he turned back and shouted a question at her. "Do you like waterfalls?"
"How did you know that?" She asked.
"Just a feeling."
Then he was, gone. Penny was still in a state of surprise. It was the last thing she thought a timid man like Jameson would do. She was still clasping the envelope in her hand. It wasn't sealed. she looked in it. There was a one way ticket on Air India.
